


When a Child goes to War

by MarbleAide



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Depression, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleAide/pseuds/MarbleAide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim calls Jason drunk and things end with things that no one wants to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When a Child goes to War

**Author's Note:**

> Just a strange tim-centric sad little meta sort of fic that I've been trying to write for ages now, so I hope you sort of like it.

It’s well past three in the morning when Tim calls him. Jason’s only been back from patrol for an hour, so when he answers he’s just a little bit annoyed. Tim had the night off. He shouldn’t be calling.

“Jay,” Tim says and it’s slurred just enough that Jason realizes the nickname isn’t used because Tim meant it, it’s because that’s the only syllable he was capable of getting out. “Jaaay, I—“ There’s a pause and a sort of scuffling sound that might be Tim trying to keep his feet under him but he’s not sure. Tim hiccups. “What’s my address?” The question comes out and Jason has to pause for just a second because, well, Tim’s drunk. 

It’s the first time Jason’s heard him in such a state, well beyond the single glass of champagne he drinks at Wayne functions to keep up a front or the one or two beers he drinks mainly out of politeness when Jason or Dick give them to him during hangout nights. But here, right now, Tim’s completely and utterly smashed, it sounds like. Which is interesting because his birthday was just last week—his twenty-first and Stephanie threw him a party, but even then Tim didn’t drink beyond the two and a half rum and cokes he made for himself, all of which consisted of more run then coke. 

“What?” Jason asks, because it sounds like an appropriate response that won’t confuse Tim. 

“My—my house. I can’t…I can’t remember.” There’s a certain way his voice tapers off that has a knot slowly forming in Jason’s gut. The edge of Tim’s voice sounds shaky, like suddenly there’s some aspect of life coming down around him and he’s just now realizing this. “I don’t wanna go to the manor, but the only address I can think of is my old one. Like—like when I was a kid.” There’s no edge now and Jason’s stomach is sinking with the weight of it. “Like my mom’s alive kid. And it’s all clouded up, the driver’s getting mad and I just want—“

“Tim,” Jason finally speaks up, cuts Tim off so he won’t ramble. He’s positive neither of them would like that. “Give the phone to the driver, alright? I’m giving him my address, you’ll come here.” 

There’s no further words, just a slurred grumble and sounds of rustling before finally the phone’s given to the cab driver and Jason’s able to get out his apartment address, promises to pay the guy double if he can just get Tim here in one piece for all the trouble. The guy still sounds irritated and Jason wonders if Tim had given him the old address by accident—if they were sitting outside of an old house in the good part of town with green lawns and trees and Jason wonders if Tim’s sitting on the sidewalk’s edge looking up at the place he left behind. 

Jason sighs as soon as the call goes quiet. He runs a hand through his hair, gets his own emotions under control, and then calls up Dick. It’s late, but Jason’s not prepared to deal with what might come and, besides, Dick’s always been better at this than him. 

Tim arrives first, stumbling out of the cab onto the sidewalk all giggling and looking like he’s been sitting in a bar for most of the day. His hair’s a mess and his eyes are heavy, glossy, and slumped with his mouth looking red and crooked as he grins up at Jason while he pays the fare. He’s wearing clothes that Jason swore he wore the day before and when he gets up close enough Jason’s well aware he spilled vodka on some article of clothing at some point in the night. He’s a mess. 

“Hi,” Tim says as he leans on Jason while they walk up the stairs, inside and then up again to Jason’s door. Jason has to get an arm around him so he doesn’t fall if he misses a step or suddenly forgets how his legs are supposed to work. 

Jason grunts. “What’s the occasion?” They’re standing outside the apartment door and it’s awkward, trying to nudge the door open while almost entirely supporting Tim’s weight which wants to fall forward every time Jason doesn’t have a hand on him. 

“Special.” Tim says, simply, just as Jason pushes open the door and he’s moving from his side, inside and practically falling onto the couch, heavy. “Hold on, look.” He fishes out his wallet from his back pocket, the wiggling movement of it all nearly send Tim tumbling from the couch, but he manages with only one foot fall for support on the floor. “Check it out.” 

He’s smiling as he hands over his driver’s license and Jason honestly doesn’t know what he’s looking for here. Tim’s got a new picture, mainly, and it’s almost strange not seeing the tiny hair-gelled sixteen year old staring up at him and instead there’s Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne with a half smile and a tie looking like he’s just run out of a meeting to come get the picture done. 

Jason blinks, looking back up at the real Tim who’s almost got the same half-smile expression on his face now. “What’s so special?” 

“It’s horizontal now.” Tim reaches over, tapping at the little rectangle of plastic like it’s a trophy needing to be admired. “You know what that means?”

“That you turned twenty-one?”

“That I made it.”

Jason takes a second to think about that, but he doesn’t get the chance to voice his thoughts when there’s a knock at the door and a second later Dick comes barging in looking just a little bit concerned. Tim cocks his head up, bends it nearly over the entire arm of the couch to get an upside down look at who just walked in and it takes him just a second of drunken understand before he’s smiling. 

“Dick!” He calls out as Dick toes off his shoes and makes his way over to the living room. “We were just talking about how I got my horizontal license.” 

“You went out and got drunk?” Are the first words out of Dick’s mouth which nearly makes Jason wince because they sound much more annoyed then they should and Jason doesn’t think Tim’s in the best place for a lecture right now. 

“Dick—“

“It was a celebration.” Tim interrupts him and the smile isn’t quite reaching his eyes anymore. “I turned twenty-one. This proves it.” 

Jason picks it up from there, keeping his voice even and calm. “We already celebrated, Tim. Last Saturday, remember? Everyone was there.”

Tim shakes his head and now the smile is all but gone. “No, but this one was private.” He lays back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling and there’s the look of distant thought in his eyes, made darker with alcohol and that looming feeling of dread that holds the room hostage. “Not being dead is private.” 

The entire room falls silent. There’s the weight of those words hanging in the air, making it too hard to say anything more, but something needs to be said. Jason and Dick make eye contact, there’s worry now in them both because they don’t talk about these sorts of things, not really, but Tim’s too drunk to keep all his thoughts buried. 

Dick licks his lips. “Tim—“

“It was my goal, you know.” He says, keeps looking up at the ceiling as if he were counting the little flakes of dust that have collected on it. His eyes are still dark. They glisten in the dim light looking like pools. “Live until twenty-one. That’s it. You’ll have made it farther than others. You’re done after that.” 

“Tim.” This time it’s Jason and his voice is firmer than Dick’s, than before, and it’s just loud enough to drag Tim’s gaze onto him, have him move his head ever so slightly so he has to meet his eye. “You’re here, Tim. You’re not done.” 

“I know,” is what he says and sighs with it. “But everything else is just extra. I’m okay with being done here. I’m…I’m just tired.” There’s a pause that doesn’t get filled even though both Dick and Jason feel the need to say something, anything, get Tim out of his own head except they don’t know what to say, they don’t know what to do. 

Tim turns his head, looks straight at Jason, and there’s something so unsettling about it that Jason feels the need to take a step back. “Yours was the worst, I think, because you were the first.” He doesn’t say it, not out loud, but all of them know what he’s talking about. Jason can feel the scars under his clothes start to itch. His lungs burn. “You proved we’re not invincible.” 

“Tim, stop. You’re drunk. You need to go to bed.” 

Dick moves forward, gets Tim to sit up with a force that makes him look like a rag doll. He doesn’t resist, only stumbles to his feet as Dick nearly carries him from the couch down the hall to Jason’s bedroom, leaving Jason alone who doesn’t mind. He doesn’t follow, instead grabs up the nearest pack of cigarettes and heads out through the sliding glass door onto his balcony, feeling his fingers twitch as he reaches for his lighter. 

“I didn’t go to his, you know. Did you?” Tim’s saying, seeming as if he doesn’t even realize Jason’s not there or the fact that he’s now in a bedroom instead of on the couch, body falling back onto the bed as Dick reaches down to take off his shoes. “I can’t remember. Did you care?”

“Tim.”

“You didn’t come back. You didn’t see it.” 

“Tim.”

“Do you know how many funerals I’ve been to?” 

Dick pauses. His chest hurts. He doesn’t move from where he is, doesn’t breathe for a couple of seconds. He has to swallow down the thick lump before he can speak. “A lot. We all have.” 

Tim laughs at that, he can’t help it. The sound is loud and broken and shakes through his entire body, tapering off into giggles that end in choked hiccups of emotion. “I went to yours.” 

He gets Tim’s shoes off, stands and looks down at him, down at the Tim who’s stopped laughing, who’s laying there looking open and hurt like an old wound that has never had the chance to heal. His eyes are wet, big, and there’s no light behind them. 

“I went to yours, Dick.”

His voice trembles. Dick’s anger leaves him as he kneels down on the floor, gets to Tim’s level and leans up just enough to touch him, cup his cheek and feel the heat of alcohol and emotion under his skin. “I’m alive, Tim. I never died. I was never going to leave. It’s okay now.”

Tim hiccups, the rawness of him fall out as he pushes Dick’s hand away, shoves him back so he can sit up and shake his head. Shake himself. “No, no, Dick, you don’t—you don’t get to pretend like that didn’t matter. Like I don’t know what losing you feels like.” 

“Tim—“

“I lost everyone. I was alone. I know how that feels, even if I can touch you now. Touch Bruce or Kon or Steph. It doesn’t mean—it doesn’t mean I still don’t know. Now what standing over your grave feels like.”

Dick sits there for a long while, sits there and just stares at Tim, watches the tears fall and the anger get replaced with a distant look, a hollow look, something that Dick can feel deep down in his core and has seen before. 

“I’m tired, Dick.” Tim breathes and Dick nods his agreement. 

He stands up and helps Tim out of his shirt and jeans, helps him peel back the bedding and get under the covers. Dick crawls in behind him, pressing up against Tim’s back and can feel the way Tim’s body pushes through every strangled breath, knows the tears haven’t stopped, but have just gotten silent how they’re all used to. 

It takes a while for Tim to speak again. Dick almost wishes he’d just fall asleep. “I think I’d be okay with just…with not doing it. The mourning and grief. Letting it go. Having it all…be over.” 

It’s easy to read between the lines. It’s easy to know what Tim’s not saying, what he’s feeling and keeping close to his chest. Dick knows, he’s seen it. He’s caught Tim enough times and knows when he did his eyes weren’t open, just breathing as he can, remember what he wants, letting himself fall and figuring it would be better to do so, easier, like maybe he’ll get lucky this time, just this once, and no one will catch him, he won’t have to drag his eyes open again and remember just how heavy they feel. 

Dick squeezes Tim around his middle, holding him as close as he can and presses his own eyes closed, fights back the wetness behind them, breathes into Tim’s hair and reminds himself to always make sure he gets to Tim on time. “Don’t. You’re not—you’re a survivor, Tim. You’ll make it through.”

Tim breathes, he feels himself do so, and memorizes how his lungs expand and how his heart steadily beats behind his ribs. “No. No, I’m not.” Tim says and Dick doesn’t want to hear it. Tim thinks about Dick, about losing his brother who he thought would always be there. About Jason who he saw from a distance. About Damian and a grieving father. Of Bruce and how no one believed him. Bart and how it ended in a phone call and Kon with wanting so desperately, refusing to let go. Steph and feeling like he always failed her, his dad, his mom, everyone else he’s seen and couldn’t do anything about. Just stand there and watch, remember their names and what they did and pass it on for others, so no one would forget, archiving their lives like tally marks being dug into his own skin. 

“I’m not a survivor.” Tim closes his eyes. He breathes. “I’m just a witness.”


End file.
